


Those Who Dream Of The Sky

by Berty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dragon Riders, Dragon Sherlock, First Kiss, Friendship/Love, M/M, Soul Bond, Telepathic Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 10:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12341037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: The stories say that dragons were once the defenders of good and peacekeepers of the skies. They say that the people of Beron and the people of Pharo had a bond, a link that allowed these incredible creatures to move among humans, and that for generations, children were fostered between families where they might find these partners. But times had changed. For centuries now there had been no dragons and they had become the stuff of myth. Dragons were stories for winter nights; wild and wise, fierce and free, something from another age.So when a young Pharon asks to be hosted by a Berond family, some are wary. These are strange days and rumours abound. But John Watson's family have a long tradition of respect and old-fashioned pride in the tales that say that their family once produced some of the strongest partnerships from the legends.Sherlock Holmes has heard these tales and his research has brought him here to see if there is any truth in them. Because the east wind is coming.And it has wings.





	Those Who Dream Of The Sky

**Author's Note:**

> This is a stand alone story in larger universe. This is the story that I write for happiness, that I have come back to again and again with different pairings, but none that have ever fit so well as Sherlock and John. This is for the little Berty who devoured every fantasy story she could find as soon as she could read well enough, and whose favourite things to read about were dragons! So when a new, shiny idea pops into my head, the dragons gets pushed (respectfully, of course) to the side until the shiny story is finished, then they sneak back - dragons are tricky like that.
> 
> So, yes! Right now, it's one part of a larger story that lives in my head.
> 
> But I can't ever imagine being bored of writing about dragons!
> 
> With thanks to Pepe, Salads and Geoff who have listened to me angst over this for the last few months. Love you guys xxx

** I **

 

John wasn’t in the courtyard when the man arrived, but the clatter of hooves on cobbles and the commotion drew him out of the warm, darkness of the stables, and squinting into the bright sunlight before he’d even had time to dismount.

It wasn’t a warm day this early in the year, but the man wore only a simple black woollen cloak over a black tunic and breeches. His boots, also black, looked expensive but he wore no gloves or hat or furs nor anything that might have made his ride more comfortable.

One of the grooms rushed past John to take the horse’s reins and several men-at-arms had taken up their positions on the steps that led up to the doors to the hall. Unknown, unexpected visitors were not common in these parts, and these were strange times, but even John thought the arrival of a single, tall rider didn’t warrant this sort of a reception.

The large, wooden hall doors opened and John craned his neck a little to see his uncle and a retinue of his household step forward to meet the newcomer. Obviously this man wasn’t unexpected. James Lowdon was a busy man and an important one; he had members of his household to see to callers for him and he rarely took the time to greet strangers on his own threshold. So what was it about this man that merited his uncle’s time and personal greeting?

“Good morning, Sir,” James called as the stranger lowered his head in an elegant if short bow. He was dark-haired, pale-eyed and very slim, and he walked with long, confident strides to the bottom of the steps where John’s uncle waited.

“Sherlock Holmes, at your family’s service,” the man replied and John had no problem hearing his deep, rich voice, even from his vantage point across the courtyard, propping up the wall beside the entrance to the stables.

“I am James Lowdon, at the service of you and yours. Welcome, Sir. I see you are unaccompanied. I trust your journey was uneventful,” Uncle James said cryptically and strangely formally to greet a man who could be no older than John was himself.

“I travel more quickly alone,” Holmes replied simply, but it was enough to give away his northern origins. The crispness of his consonants and the roundness of his vowels caused a few whispers among those who had stopped to watch. It wasn’t often they had a Pharon visitor.

Stretching up a little to see what his uncle’s response would be to such a cool answer, John found himself pinned by the sharp gaze of the newcomer. This far away, he couldn’t make out the exact colour of the man’s eyes, but the intensity of his gaze lost nothing over the intervening distance. He had a long, thin face and sharply defined cheekbones under unruly hair of a shade John would have named black but for the fact that the rest of his dark clothing showed up the warmth of the brown that shot it through. He judged that others might find the man’s penetrating gaze to be unnerving, but John merely stood calmly while Holmes looked him quickly up and down. The man blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly as if in challenge when they returned to John’s face, so John gave him a small smile before he turned back to listen to his Uncle’s introductions.

John watched as Holmes was guided up the steps and into the hall, the Pharon’s eyes carefully cataloguing the place John had called home for some years. He glanced around, trying to see past his familiarity and affection for the place to understand what the other man might see. His uncle’s hall was large by the standards of his country, built in the manner of most Berond family seats, with practicality and comfort foremost. He got the distinct impression that Holmes found it unimpressive and quaint, and let his gaze drift back to the tall, curly-haired traveller who shot him one last glance back over his shoulder as the doors closed behind them.

He didn’t often bother with the privileges his birth had brought him, but today John thought he might as he headed back through the stables and round through the back corridors into the hall itself.

As the youngest child of James Lowdon’s youngest sister, his position was of little significance within the household, which John found quite useful. It meant he was schooled along with his cousins but that he could avoid most of the tedious work of learning how to manage the estate and family holdings like James’ own children had to. Greg, his cousin, especially bore the brunt of this individual attention, being James’ heir, but most of the rest of his cousins had holdings to learn to manage or political ambitions to fulfil.

John had some land of his own, courtesy of his parents, but although he had come of an age to take possession of it, he had not yet quit his place in his uncle’s household. His was farming land; enough for him to live quietly and comfortably but little enough that its running mostly looked after itself with the assistance of a few trusted tenant families. He had lived here at the family seat for over ten years, since his mother and father had both died of the sweating sickness that terrible winter that had left him and his older sister Harriet as orphans. James had taken in his niece and nephew, dutifully and gladly, adding them to his extended household. John’s sister had retuned to their parents’ land once she had reached her majority, although she visited often. John had stayed to learn what he could from the tutors, visitors and artisans that came often to the Lowden Hall and to try to decide what to make of himself when the time came to leave.

John slid in through a side door into his uncle’s receiving room and made himself unobtrusive against the wall at the back of the group. Several fires were lit, in the hearth and in braziers around the room. He had arrived just in time to hear Holmes explain the reason for his visit to his various aunts, uncles, cousins and representatives of other local families who had gathered around. The man had been seated close to the fire and provided with a mug of something to drink.

“My family sends you their warmest regards,” the Pharon began, inclining his head in James’ direction once again. His words were courteous but his manner was coolly distant, as if he wasn’t used to making small talk. “And they thank you for agreeing to be my hosts. I am looking forward to learning about Beron and increasing the understanding and friendship between our countries and our families.”

John had heard nothing of this invitation and he glanced around at several other blank or openly surprised expressions, confirming that this was not a widely known arrangement.

“It is our pleasure,” James replied with a genuine smile. “I hope you will be comfortable with us and if we might prevail upon you to recount some of our shared histories that your people have preserved, we would count ourselves highly honoured. My grandfather used to tell such tales, told to him by his own grandfather. I believe what we have remaining is but a shadow of what once was.”

“It would be my honour, I assure you,” the Pharon replied with a tight, polite smile.

John smirked to himself, confident that the young stranger would much rather not have to address them at all.

 

** II **

 

Sherlock took a deep breath as the door closed behind him. He hadn’t quite known what to expect from the Lowdon family seat. On his journey through Beron he had observed dwellings both elaborate and humble and this country estate clearly fitted the former category in its size and build yet it was still markedly different from homes in his land far to the north.

The Berond were clearly quite practical in their tastes. He regarded his room as an example. A fire burned in a stone fireplace, the plain floorboards were polished - beeswax and some kind of vegetable oil - and spread with dark rugs. The curtains around his bed and at the windows were a deep blue, heavy weave - a costly dye - simple but effective. There was a serviceable desk, several upholstered chairs and a plain mirror above a washstand – all the things one might find in a bedchamber in his own home. The glaring difference was in the decoration of the room. While a Berond room was austere and practical, a Pharon room would have had tapestries, rich fabrics at the window, ornate carving in the items of furniture, jewel colours, cushions and gleaming wall sconces to reflect the candlelight at night. Although undoubtedly a comfortable room fit for an important visitor to Beron, at home, Sherlock thought, to offer hospitality in such simplicity would be considered almost an insult.

He hung his cloak on a peg by the door then walked to the window. It looked down into the large courtyard in which he had arrived. It was surrounded on four sides by the gatehouse, the hall itself on two sides and on the fourth a range of lower buildings, presumably working areas like bakery, brewery and stables. As he watched, a young man tripped down the steps of the hall, forcing his arms into his riding cloak and disappeared into one of the doors on the lower range. A moment later he reappeared with a horse and groom, accepting a boost up onto the animal’s back before turning out of the courtyard and through the gatehouse. A messenger of some sort Sherlock thought, perhaps bringing news of his arrival, but to whom?

His attention was caught by another meeting in the busy courtyard. The house’s heir - what was his name, Grant? Gray? – stood talking with a shorter, sandy-hired man. They laughed easily together as they turned and walked back toward the hall. Sherlock realised it was the man he had noticed earlier, his eye having been  being drawn to the stillness and presence of him as he’d arrived. He didn’t look to be a terribly impressive man from this vantage point; sturdy, his face mild and quick to smile. His clothes were relatively new but sober, even by the standards of the Berond. He walked with his eyes lowered and his movements precise and small, as if he was deliberately deflecting attention away from himself. Sherlock wondered why and then wondered at his own interest.

It was the heir that he had come here to meet, although he had been aware that James Lowdon had five children and any of them might have been the one that Sherlock was looking for. Grey – damn, what was his name?- had seemed like a good man and a relatively intelligent one. He had spent some time with him in the hall, and while his company hadn’t been unpleasant, Sherlock hadn’t wished to prolong their contact. Perhaps if he sought him out later the benefit of more time in his presence might reveal some answers to Sherlock’s questions. If only he knew what it was he was looking for, this whole plan of his would have borne fruit by now – as it was he felt he was no closer to his goal than when he’d left his home.

He turned from the window and opened his large, leather satchel. Removing his spare clothing and personal effects, he worked a finger between the lining and outer of the bag and withdrew a piece of paper. Quickly unfolding it onto his bed, he flattened it with impatient fingers. Following a genealogy of names he found the heir- Greg, that was what he’d meant – and smoothed an index finger across the sheet where the names of many siblings and cousins tangled, nearly filling the page with their irritatingly fecund number. Some names he recognised among those he had been introduced to today, others he had met on his travels and already dismissed, but there were too many unknown to him to draw any useful conclusion. Perhaps the sandy-haired man he’d seen wasn’t a Lowdon at all.

Sherlock needed more information.

 

 

** III **

 

Lowering the mare’s foot to the ground, John straightened up to find himself the object of scrutiny for the second time that day.

“It’s healing up nicely, Tom,” he told the groom, stroking a hand down the neck and withers of his patient. “She can go out in the paddock tomorrow.”

Tom nodded his thanks and John turned away, wiping his hands together and hoping to avoid the men crossing the courtyard before him.

“John!” Greg called, ruining his last hope of a quick escape. His cousin was also one of his best friends. Only a little older than John, they had grown up together in the sprawling mess of family that filled Lowdon Hall. They had played together, learned together and supported each other through first loves, broken hearts, disagreements, and the ups and downs of their young lives. That didn't mean he wouldn't mercilessly abandon him to visitor duty had the opportunity arisen.

Turning smartly, John was quick enough to catch Holmes darting an interested glance between him and Greg before his face smoothed into an impassive mask.

“John, this is Sherlock Holmes, our visitor from Pharo. Sherlock, this is John Watson, my cousin.”

“At your service, Sir,” John smiled and gave a short bow.

“At yours and your family’s,” Holmes replied without returning the smile, then surprised John by continuing, “Please, call me Sherlock.”

“I was just showing Sherlock around,” Greg said cheerfully. “I was going to show him the hawks next, but as they're a passion of yours and you’re here, maybe you’d like to take him to the mews?”

“Do you work with the birds?” Sherlock asked sounding less than captivated.

“No, John here has something of a knack with them,” Greg replied, saving John the task of finding an equally bland answer. “He's a useful man to have around. Sometimes he’s the only one that can get through to them.”

“An admirable skill,” Sherlock murmured, eyeing John with renewed interest. Although not entirely comfortable with the scrutiny, John found that he didn’t mind the praise.

Greg clapped him on the shoulder and excused himself, quickly disappearing back into the Hall, leaving John to lead Sherlock into the dimness of the mews. Most of the birds were loose in their enclosures, preening or watching balefully as John tried unsuccessfully to engage the dark-haired Pharon in conversation.

“Do your countrymen fly hawks?” John asked politely, casting around for something to pique the quiet man’s interest.

“What is wrong with that one?” Sherlock asked, ignoring him completely.

John blinked a few times, thrown by the sudden comment. Sherlock glared at a bobbing peregrine, his head tipping to one side, eyes narrowed. Her golden eyes were trained on their visitor and she ducked and stretched repeatedly, never taking her gaze off him. John noted but refrained from remarking upon the uncanny similarities between man and bird. “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with her. She’s just wondering whether to attack you or not,” John said, carefully careless.

Sherlock snorted and quirked a smile at John’s amused expression, but nevertheless, he kept a wary eye on the falcon for the rest of their visit.

“So you are Grant’s cousin?” the dark man asked once they had exited the mews back into the busy workshops.

“You mean Greg?” John took Sherlock’s truculent shrug as an affirmative. “Yes, I’m Lady Caroline’s son. John Watson.”

“Wat’s Son?”

“Yes.”

“Not a Lowdon?”

“Yes, I’m Caroline Lowdon’s son,” John said slowly. Was the man deaf or something? “Watson was my father’s family name.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "And are the Watsons similarly ancient of name?”

"Ancient of...? As the Lowdons? Well, I don't know about that. They're local landowners. Farmers. Good people," John told him, wishing he didn't sound like he was justifying himself.

"Yes, I'm sure," Sherlock muttered, sounding anything but.

Sherlock’s eyes were grey in the muted light inside; John was sure they’d been blue when they were outside in the courtyard. He wasn’t exactly a handsome man, not in a conventional way, but he had a presence to him that you couldn’t deny. He was obviously sharp and merciless in his conversation, and John wasn’t sure exactly where he stood in the man’s estimation. Not that he cared one way or the other, of course.

Leading him back through the stables, John tried to escort the Pharon back to the hall, but the man would not be rushed.

“Have you always lived here?” Sherlock inquired, idly petting the nose of one of John’s favourite horses.

“Me? No,” John said. “My family have some land further up the river. My sister lives there now. I inherited a small estate up there when my parents died some years ago. I’ll be moving up there myself next year.”

Sherlock blinked and drew back a little. “I’m sorry about your parents,” he murmured, more gently than John had heard him speak so far.

A little surprised by the compassionate note, John nodded his thanks. “It was a long time ago now, but we were lucky to have Uncle James take us in. We grew up here with all our cousins – it could have been a lot worse.”

“So you have been here some time, then,” Sherlock continued.

“Well, I only got back here last year. I was away on the Ascene border on military service for two years.”

Sherlock looked as if he had the answer to a bigger question for a moment, then asked, “Did you see a lot of action?”

“Some. Of course the Ascene Council claimed that they were unrelated attacks by bandits and outlaws.”

“You don’t think so?”

“They looked pretty well provisioned and equipped for a bunch of thieves,” John replied carefully. Tensions were high in relations with their neighbours to the east. Rumours and lies were tangled up with truths in a jumble that it would take smarter men than him to unravel.

“So you’re a soldier. No plans to make a career of it?”

“Thought about it,” John admitted, “but I decided to come home to study for a little longer. I found I had an interest in medicine while I was up there. I thought I could be more useful to my countrymen if I knew how to put them back together when required.”

Sherlock regarded him steadily and was about to reply but was interrupted by Robert. “John, Master Holmes, father has sent me to fetch you to the table.”

“Dinner time,” John explained when Sherlock looked blankly at his cousin. Things must have been very different where Sherlock came from judging by his surprise at the most mundane things.

“Again?” Sherlock asked aghast. “We’ve only just eaten! The Berond constitution obviously requires a lot more fuel than the average Pharon.” He curtly gestured for Robert to lead the way, leaving John to follow behind thinking that a few good Berond meals behind Sherlock’s ribs might put some flesh to his bones and some pink to his cheeks. It might improve his temper too. One could only hope.

 

** IV **

 

The clear weather had held, but Sherlock scowled out of his chamber window regardless. For four days he had been here now, and other than surprising himself with his growing desire for John Watson’s not completely unbearable company, he had achieved little.

He had researched everything he could find to prepare himself for this trip but it had failed to furnish him with the most fundamental points. His family’s library contained a number of historical accounts of dragon/source pairings, but on the subject of finding one’s source there was scarcely two paragraphs and both of them were distressingly vague. He understood that the bond would only happen once, any element of choice was purely fictional and that the desire to pair up would be mutual. But as to how one knew who one’s appointed bondmate was, there was no advice, simply platitudes along the lines that ‘one just knew.’ It didn’t help. Frankly, he was disappointed by his ancestors’ lack of academic rigour. Sentimental nonsense was hardly a substitute for facts.

Below in the yard, a horse had been saddled, ready to travel from the bags draped across it. Sherlock was surprised to see when the rider came and took the reins that it was John, dressed as usual in browns and drab greens.

Without thinking, Sherlock grabbed a change of clothes, stuffed them into his satchel, and pulled his cloak around him. He ran down the stairs, through the hall and into the pale sunlight just as John was about to mount.

“Sherlock?” John asked, frowning at his hurried appearance at his side.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

John blinked at him, his lips twitching. Glancing around, Sherlock noticed that others had stopped to watch, the courtyard falling momentarily quiet and he reviewed his approach, wincing slightly. Really, the Berond were ridiculously polite and mindful of social conventions. It was exhausting.

“That is…I was wondering if I might accompany you. I am keen to see as much of your…ah… beautiful country as I can while I’m here. If it pleases you, of course.”

John bit his lips, and Sherlock just knew it was to stifle one of his idiotic, infectious grins. John, at least, didn’t require the inanities of etiquette that his countrymen seemed to live for. John was polite enough, but he spoke his mind and had a certain flexibility of thought Sherlock couldn’t help but admire, as he had learned in the few days he had known him.

“If my uncle can spare you, you’re welcome to join me, of course,” John told him, flicking his blue eyes over Sherlock’s shoulder, then pointedly catching his gaze again.

Sherlock turned swiftly and bowed most carefully to his host who had appeared, somewhat perplexed, at the hall doors. “Sir, had I realised that he had intended to leave so early this morning, I would have asked your permission to accompany your nephew last night. Please forgive our oversight.”

James Lowdon seemed both amused and slightly baffled but graciously agreed without question and another horse was quickly readied for Sherlock.

“Our oversight? _Ours?”_ John hissed at him as they trotted out of the gatehouse, leaning across to make his point.

“You forgot to tell me you were leaving. I forgot to take insult at that!” Sherlock muttered back. “ _Our_ oversight.”

“No, I didn’t tell you because…why would I? The only thing I _forgot_ , Sherlock, is that you are a bloody madman!”

Sherlock simply grunted and adjusted his seat.

“I’m amazed that you could pack that quickly. It usually takes you an age to comb your hair just so, let alone pick out which tunic to wear!”

“What are you implying?” Sherlock asked, affronted.

John huffed and looked away, obviously having no answer to his question. “You don’t even know where we’re going!” he snapped.

“I assumed we were going to visit your sister,” Sherlock replied smoothly.

“Well…that’s actually right. How did you…?”

“You’ve got your sword, so you’re not staying near the hall, possibly passing through less populated areas. Small pack, so only a one or two night stay. Early start, you need to get somewhere before nightfall where you expect a bed for the night as you’re not carrying a bedroll. You’re wearing clean but comfortable clothing; you’re not out to impress someone, so not a lover. You have several letters tucked into your pack, the topmost of which is in an unformed hand, probably a child’s, addressed to someone whose name ends ‘ry’. It’s an informal style of address, obviously from someone who knows the recipient well. You have mentioned having a sister who lives within a day’s ride of here, by the name of Harriet and who is addressed by her family and closest friends as Harry.”

John rode in stunned silence for a moment before a huge grin spread reluctantly across his face. “That was amazing!”

Sherlock paused, waiting for the scorn that usually followed one of his deductions. But John just continued to beam at him. He blinked. “Really?”

“Yes, really. That’s brilliant!”

“That’s not what people normally say,” Sherlock admitted quietly.

“What do they normally say?”

“Well, the most polite one is ‘Shut-up, Sherlock.’”

John laughed out loud at that, making Sherlock hide his own grin, but not quickly enough that John didn’t see it.

Few of the trees had begun to awaken yet, but the blackthorn were white with fragile blossom looking like isolated snow drifts when seen from a distance. They rode into the afternoon, keeping up a mile-eating pace before John indicated that they should stop by a small river for the horses to drink and rest for a while. It had been an easy ride, passing through small villages and past isolated farms. They sat out of the wind, protected by a copse of trees with their backs to an outcrop of rock and watched their mounts graze beside the water while they ate the pastries John had brought. The sun had no real heat behind it, but it was comfortable enough wrapped in their travelling cloaks to sit for a time.

“So, what brings you to Beron, Sherlock Holmes?” John asked idly, tipping back his head, closing his eyes and crossing his hands across his stomach.

“Research,” Sherlock admitted truthfully, swallowing the last piece of his lunch.

“Researching what?” John enquired.

Sherlock pulled up his knees and rested his arms across them. He wondered how much to tell John. “History,” he settled on eventually.

“History?” John echoed scornfully.

“What? It’s interesting! If we don’t respect the past then we’re doomed to repeat the same mistakes again and again.”

“Oh, yes?” John said politely. “”So you’re a scholar?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Sherlock murmured.

“I bet you’re a good one too. Never miss a thing. Ever got less than top marks?”

Sherlock eyed the twitches around John’s lips that told him he was being very gently teased. It wasn’t something he’d enjoyed in the past, but somehow he found John’s style of joking less mocking than he’d been accustomed to. Once or twice he’d actually found himself setting up John’s next joke, just to see him smile. “No,” he muttered.

“That would explain the speech earlier. About my sister’s house. Do you do that often?”

Sherlock just shrugged, unwilling to prolong this line of discussion. His ability to observe and detail these intimate glances into the lives of others often brought him into opposition with people.

“Get you into trouble much?” John asked with surprising insight, cracking open an eye and grinning. It made him look rather endearingly child-like. Sherlock found himself responding to John’s amusement, his lips curling up even as he fought the impulse to grin back.

“More than I’d like,” Sherlock admitted.

Sitting up, John narrowed his focus on Sherlock. “So how old are you? Your scrawniness says ten but your love of history says sixty.”

Sherlock threw a handful of grass at him, which John ignored. “Twenty-one,” he sniffed. “And you? I expect you’ll be hitting puberty anytime now.”

John reached out and flicked Sherlock’s ear with a practiced finger, startling an “ouch” out of him. “Respect those older and wiser that yourself, young man,” he intoned.

“Maybe older,” Sherlock grumbled, but John had settled back with his eyes shut again. He looked contented and relaxed to be out in the spring air with Sherlock. “So why the visit? Do you have a girlfriend back at your home?”

“I though you’d already worked out that I wasn’t seeing a lover based on my clothing choices,” John said, a little tartly.

“Balance of probability. I don’t know what your courting customs are here – maybe drab is sexy in Beron,” Sherlock sniped.

“Charming,” John muttered. “Nope, no girlfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” Sherlock asked, watching him from the corner of his eye. But John didn’t even flinch.

“Nope. Too drab for anyone to love, that’s me,” John said with a self deprecating smile and quickly changed the subject. “So what kind of history are you researching then?”

“Dragons,” Sherlock replied without thinking.

The reaction was instantaneous. John immediately sat up and looked at Sherlock intently. He hoped that was a good sign.

“Dragons? Really?” John’s eyes sparkled.

“Yes, really,” Sherlock told him, enjoying the way John hung on his words.

“You believe in the old stories then?” John said.

“That’s what I’m here to find out,” he hedged, avoiding John’s eager expression.

“So why here?” And really, John kept surprising him with the right questions – it was… good.

“The Lowdons feature quite prominently in the written histories of my family. They were our truest allies and our greatest friends in ancient times.”

“You have books? About dragons?” John demanded, as if Sherlock had personally kept this item of knowledge from him.

“Yes, at home. My family have collected and preserved as many as we could find.”

“What do you think happened, then? Why did the dragons leave?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said carefully, watching John’s reactions with interest. In his travels it had become clear to Sherlock that the Berond had banished any memory of dragons into a semi-mythical state, with people even going so far as to claim that the animals were a metaphorical representation of the might of the Pharon army of old.

“Grandfather used to say that the magic ran out so the right children stopped being born and even if they were born they couldn’t find their dragons.”

“That’s a rather simplistic way of putting it, but in essence it is one theory on their decline.”

“He used to tell stories about the dragons,” John breathed. “How they chose their partner from only the truest and bravest. How they would grow up together before they went north to train. How they used to keep the laws of the land, flying patrols and protecting borders. God, I used to love those stories. I drove everyone else mad with them when I was a child.”

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked away from John’s enraptured face. “Bondmate...the partnerships were called bondmates.”

“Bondmates,” John repeated, turning the word over in his mouth as if he were remembering it. “And what did that mean for them? Did they live together? Did they have families or marry outside of the bond? Or were they everything to each other?”

“I don’t know. So little has survived…”

At that moment, three things happened almost simultaneously. The horses gave a loud, fearful cry then bolted, John swore and a large black bear stumbled out of the trees behind them.

Sherlock could smell it, sour and rank, recently awakened from its hibernation. He leapt to his feet, but John was already planted between himself and the bear. His sword was drawn and levelled at the animal as it lifted itself to its back legs and grunted at them. Even after a winter’s starvation it was massive, towering over John. It swung its huge head, back and forth, growling and snorting the air.

Sherlock should have been searching for an escape for them, but he couldn’t take his eyes from John. He was…perfect. Amazing. Fantastic. He looked so calm and capable, staring down the animal without the slightest hint of doubt. He seemed to grow before Sherlock’s eyes, dauntless and resilient.

Something roared to life in the back of Sherlock’s mind. Awareness flooded him and suddenly he _knew._

The desire to shift was almost overpowering. Sherlock held himself utterly still, terrified that the slightest twitch would start a reaction that he’d only ever read about. Regardless, he could feel the power coursing through him, flickering along his skin and blurring his edges. His mind buzzed with the potential - just a thought away from actuality. He knew what it was to have wings and claws and scales and _to fly_. To be what he’d been born to be. It was dizzying, overwhelming, with so much untapped might, just requiring him to reach for it. It would be so simple.

Sherlock breathed it in and felt the shape of it, his chin rising and his back arching and…

John was shaking him, his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, bleeding warmth through his tunic and cloak. Sherlock wanted to groan into the rightness of his touch, wanted to chase that heat back into the core of John, into his magnificent heart and make a home there.

Of course. _Of course_ it was John. Not Grant or Rupert or Eliza or David or Alice or any of the other dull Lowdon heirs he’d tracked down on his travels. He’d known it without even realising. Sherlock was aware of his social limitations; he often found it hard to say the right thing – harder still to stop himself from saying the wrong thing. But John hadn’t minded that at all. John had looked at him with the familiar confusion, but not once had it turned to the disappointment, dismissal or anger Sherlock had become so accustomed to.

John had seen through his shortcomings and his veneer of indifference. He hadn’t minded his moods and his silences.

John was his source.

His life’s partner.

 _His bondmate_.

 

 

** V **

 

Sherlock was faking him out, John decided. He was about to slap him, to provoke some sort of reaction when the madman took a huge breath and whooped with laughter.

John had heard of people having strange reactions when put under extreme stress – he’d seen it in his time on the border – but when Sherlock tried to pick John up and spin him around, he decided the slap was a good idea after all.

“Ouch! What was that for?” Sherlock yelped, his hand coming up to his face where John’s handprint had pinked up his cheek nicely.

“I thought you were hysterical,” John explained.

“Why would I be hysterical?” Sherlock sounded hurt.

“The…” John gestured over his shoulder where only a minute ago a large, hungry, black bear had been considering attacking them.

“Where did it go?” Sherlock asked, suddenly concerned.

John stared at the Pharon. “It…well, it ran off. I was sure it was going to charge us, but it suddenly just changed its mind and…,” John shrugged.

It had all happened very quickly, and John had been certain that it wasn’t going to end well. It was early in the year for a bear to be this far from his den in the mountains, but he knew they woke up hungry and with little other game around yet, he and Sherlock must have looked pretty good. Up on its back legs and growling at them, John knew they’d had only seconds before it tried its luck but it had stepped back suddenly, dropping onto all-fours and running back the way it had come.

“Oh! OH!” Sherlock gasped his hands flying. “It was the…It must have seen when I… when you…It could _see_ me. Oh, that’s brilliant, John.”

John considered that a second slap might be needed, but Sherlock seemed to realise and stepped sharply back out of his reach.

Sherlock leapt for his satchel and scrabbled around in it, pulling out a folded piece of paper, muttering to himself.

John rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the energy that had filled him just seconds ago begin to turn sour now the threat of imminent death by bear was over. He wasn’t so sure about his chances against imminent death by irritating madman.

He looked along the river and was pleased to see that the horses hadn’t completely disappeared. He whistled to them and clicked his tongue hopefully, but despite lifting their heads to look at him, neither made any attempt to return.

“Come on, Sherlock,” John called, glancing over his shoulder to where his friend was still busily reading. He didn’t wait to see if he’d heard, just trusted him to eventually notice that he was alone and follow.

It was past sundown when they finally sighted Harry’s home. John could see that some of the windows were lit up already and it made a pretty picture, tucked at the head of the valley with the sky darkening from violet to indigo and blue.

The horses were tired, but they must have picked up on John’s happiness and they increased their pace as they climbed the final hill.

The door opened as they stopped in front of the long, low house and light spilled out along with his sister and several excited dogs. John threw his reins to Sherlock in time to catch Harry in his arms as she ran at him.

“John! I thought you’d never come. It’s been _ages!_ ” Harry laughed, hugging him hard.

“Well, since midwinter,” John corrected her, setting her back on her feet and holding her at arm’s length so he could look at her.

“You are keeping well?” John asked and Harry just nodded. He saw the second she registered Sherlock, standing just outside the reach of the light from the doorway, greeting the dogs with a gentle hand.

“My apologies, I didn’t notice your companion,” she smiled, straightening her dress and looking toward John for an introduction.

“Sherlock Holmes, at your service,” Sherlock intoned with a short bow. Really, John would have to tell him that his greetings were the barest minimum of courtesy, but he feared that Sherlock probably already knew that.

“Sherlock, this is my sister Harriet. Harry, Sherlock is a scholar, visiting from Pharo hoping to learn more about how we do things in Beron.”

“Of course. You’re welcome in my home, sir,” Harry smiled, her head tilting in a way that John recognised as curiosity.

“Please, call me Sherlock. And I’m very grateful to you.” John couldn’t help but smile at the cool formality of Sherlock’s response, despite John and Harry’s cordiality. It was almost like he had learned to be polite from a book rather than any genuine feelings of nicety. And now that he’d thought of that, the more he thought that it was quite possibly true.

They ate a relaxed dinner while Harry had a room made ready for Sherlock. John’s own room, the same one from childhood, was always kept ready for him. He and his sister chattered long into the evening, while Sherlock mostly listened, smiling when they included him but remaining taciturn.

When they finally retired, it was John who showed Sherlock to the best guest room, which Sherlock thanked him for with a murmur.

“Before you turn in, I have something to show you,” John told him and led him down the hallway to his own room. Sherlock followed him inside with the first genuine flicker of interest he had shown since arriving, his gaze taking in the simple room still adorned with the accumulated possessions of John’s first eleven years, when he’d lived here in his family home.

John watched him take in all his room had to tell, and then looked pointedly up at the wall above his bed where an oddly bright tapestry hung, partly obscured by the curtains around John’s bed.

“Dragons?” Sherlock asked and John grinned, pulling back the hanging material to fully uncover the image. It was obviously very old and plainly not Berond work – the colours were too vivid, the scene too busy for the sedate taste of John’s countrymen.

“It’s Pharon?” Sherlock asked, surprised.

John nodded. “It was my grandfather’s from his own grandfather’s grandfather. He gave it to me when I was a boy. The story that came with it is that it was a gift from the Pharon family who fostered one of my ancestors.”

Sherlock quickly kicked off his boots and leapt up onto John’s bed for a closer look, clearly delighted by the image.

John recalled many nights falling asleep with this hanging as companion. It depicted a man facing a glorious dragon, picked out in metallic golden and bronze thread, still bright after all this time. The man’s hand was raised, reaching toward the dragon’s muzzle and the dragon was bending its huge neck down into the touch. They stood before a great grey stone citadel backed by stylised, white-shouldered mountains and a sky almost luminously blue.

John watched as Sherlock took in every detail of the image greedily. His expression was wrapt as he studied each detail with obvious pleasure.

“Do you see the harness?” Sherlock asked, his fingers flickering a gesture.

John was surprised that he’d never noticed the detail before in all the years he had stared up at it, but the man depicted was holding looped lines in his hand. It gave a whole different meaning to the image that John had never before considered despite it being his most treasured possession.

“They’re going to fly,” John murmured in wonder.

Sherlock nodded. “Probably their first flight together,” he replied, equally as quietly as John. “It was a big step in the relationship between bondmates. This was probably commissioned to celebrate the moment for this pair.”

John’s heart gave a well-remembered ache at that, having felt something similar every time he’d stared at the hanging and wished himself there, alive at such a time. Of course it hadn’t been as simple as being born at the correct time according to the stories. It had been the highest honour and a huge responsibility to be chosen by a dragon. Not even the direct heirs of noble families had turned down the chance to become the bonded other to a dragon that asked them, even though it meant they had to pass on their birthright to the next heir, such was the dedication required by the bond.

Sherlock sat down facing the hanging, crossing his legs on John’s bed and John joined him, cherishing the memories he had of doing just this, getting lost in the needlework. He also felt strangely pleased to have shared it with the unusual Pharon man.

“How old do you think they are?” Sherlock asked, tipping his head to one side.

“How can you tell how old a dragon is?” John asked in return.

“I don’t know, but the boy, he looks to be quite young, do you think?”

“Maybe. Perhaps they had to wait for the dragon to mature enough to carry a person.”

“Or they had to wait for a child to be strong enough to hold on.”

“A dragon would never let his bondmate fall,” John stated dismissively.

Sherlock breathed in to reply but seemed to lose his train of thought as John’s words registered. He turned and looked at him. “No, they wouldn’t. How do you know that?”

John didn’t return Sherlock’s gaze. “My grandfather told me. That’s Jacob Lowdon,” he indicated with a nod of his head toward the hanging. “My great-grandfather if you add a dozen more greats to it. His bondmate was…”

“Félice Holmes,” Sherlock whispered, turning back to stare at the image again.

“Holmes?”

“Yes, an ancestor of mine.”

“They were my grandfather’s favourites,” John admitted.

Sherlock nodded. “They had one of the strongest bonds ever recorded. They say she once flew for three days straight when Beron was under attack and Jacob refused to let her go alone. He was almost dead of cold and exposure and she was grey with fatigue when it was time for Félice to change back, but they managed to do it anyway. Such strength and devotion.”

“I used to wish every night that I’d wake up there,” John admitted. “It must have been incredible to have that lifelong bond with a dragon. I used to wonder whether I would have been chosen if I’d lived back then. If I’d have been good enough.”

Sherlock flopped onto his back, yawning but keeping his eyes on John’s face. “I always used to wonder what sort of a dragon I’d have made,” he agreed. “What would I have looked like? What would it have felt like to fly? To breathe fire?”

John shrugged. “It’s been hundreds of years since the last dragon died. I just can’t believe that they let it happen. No new pairs to take their place. No one to train them even if another dragon was born. Why didn’t anyone fight for them? Why didn’t anyone care?”

“I care,” Sherlock murmured.

“And I care, but we’re too late,” John replied quietly.

 

 

** VI **

 

The sounds of the household rising for the day brought Sherlock awake slowly. He’d been travelling for long enough to be unsurprised by not waking in his own bed anymore but this morning he felt a lack of urgency about it that was at odds with his usual drive to continue his quest. The room was still fairly dark and it wasn’t until he turned his head and found John still sleeping next to him that he recalled where he was. Apparently they had both fallen asleep on John’s bed after talking late into the night about dragons.

Sherlock’s eyes strayed back to the tapestry on the wall above John’s bed where, even in the dimness of the room, the colours still glowed. Sherlock looked carefully at the boy in the image again. He had the same sandy hair as John, but he could discern no more of his ancestor’s heritage in him than that.

He turned back to his unwitting bedmate and took a long, hard look at the man he suspected was going to become the most important person in his life. From the little that Sherlock had gleaned from his books, he knew the bond between dragon and source was private and sacred, but other than that, not much was known about the mechanics of it. It happened with the person it was supposed to happen with and nobody else and it was for life – it wasn’t a lot to go on, it had to be said.

John’s face was already becoming tanned by the spring sunshine and he looked even younger than his twenty-three years as he slept. He wasn’t tall but his shoulders were broad and his hips quite slim. The musculature of his arms and thighs was well defined and he gave the air of being real and solid.

He and Sherlock had been becoming friends already when it had occurred to him that John was his source. He was a good man, sturdy, dependable, brave and sensible. Of course he lacked the flair and sharp intelligence of Sherlock’s family (which was a good thing in many ways), but his mind was quick and surprisingly flexible. He was clearly a man with a strong moral compass and not at all boring, which was appealing to Sherlock who found most people he encountered to be crashingly dull.

Yes, Sherlock could do a lot worse than John Watson as his soon to be source.

He slipped off the bed and, after a careful look out of the door, he walked back to his own room where there was an ewer of water waiting for him, still warm. He quickly washed and changed his shirt, wondering at the tales that were already probably being told about their guest’s vacant bedchamber. After completing his morning’s routine (which John already teased him about – something about the length of time it took for Sherlock to get himself ready in the morning – Sherlock didn’t understand the joke to be honest), he stalked quietly back down the hall to John’s room. His fingertips in John’s ewer confirmed that someone had been in to provide hot water there too, but Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to be overly concerned.

Sherlock smirked as he flicked the water drops off his fingers into John’s slumbering face. John scrunched up his face adorably and groaned, and Sherlock thought he could just about make out his name in the pained growl that John made. Sherlock ignored his complaints and chided him until John relented and got ready for the day.

The grins that came with the good morning wishes told Sherlock that the story of their sleeping arrangements had already done the rounds, but John seemed oblivious and then bemused when his sister asked rather archly how they had slept.

Sherlock simply took his place at the table and picked at the plate of food he was brought by a cheerful, smiling woman.

“So what did you have in mind to do today?” Harry asked them when John failed to rise to her gentle teasing.

“I don’t know, really,” John shrugged. “Anything we can help with?”

Harry assured them that her holding was quite in order, thank you. She was a practical woman, and Sherlock could see the family traits that she and John shared in the strength of her personality, her stature and her quickness to laugh. He found he quite liked her.

“If it isn’t inconvenient, I wonder if we might visit your own holding,” Sherlock asked, starting off a whole new round of knowing smiles. He wasn’t concerned by their assumptions and if it helped him to get John alone for a while then it played right into his hands that these people believed John to be courting Sherlock. He and John needed some space and some time to build on what Sherlock had felt yesterday during the bear attack. He needed to see if John could tap into that reserve of energy at will or if he needed stimulus. Oh, and John might need a little persuading first.

Shortly thereafter they were riding out under blue, cloud-studded skies toward John’s holding. John kept casting dark looks at Sherlock as he rode, blaming the sleepover incident on him. Harry had laughed as she’d told the story and there had been no trace of anything but amusement and affection in the teasing of the others who lived and worked at Harry’s holding.

It was still some time before lunch that they arrived at John’s holding. John had told Sherlock when they had passed an unmarked boundary and the fields and orchards became his own rather than his sister’s. He hadn’t been boasting, but he smiled with quiet pride at the well-tended landscape, casting sly looks at Sherlock now and again to gauge his approval. Sherlock in turn made polite comments about how comely the land was and asked questions that John was pleased to answer, showing his land in its best light.

They walked around the house and the farm buildings while John told Sherlock of his plans once he took possession of his inheritance. He even asked for Sherlock’s preferences about his ideas once or twice, surprising the Pharon.

Although it was quiet at the house, there were still the caretakers moving around and attending to the business of the farm. Sherlock, needing somewhere even more secluded, suggested that they take their lunch up to the orchard on a gentle hill before the land became wildwoods once more.

John agreed, and they mounted up to trot the short incline. The blossom stood out starkly against the browns and greens of the spring countryside. They found themselves a venerable apple tree to lean against as they ate bread, cheese and last-year’s sweet and wrinkled apples, beneath the blossom of this year’s, brushing it from each other’s shoulders and hair when the breeze made it fall.

Once they had finished, Sherlock led John deeper into the trees, and beyond into the surrounding woodland, asking questions about John’s plans for his land before turning to face him.

John looked at Sherlock with a small, knowing smile on his lips and stepped closer into his space, resting tentative hands on Sherlock’s waist, taking him somewhat by surprise. For a moment Sherlock wondered if his purpose had already been guessed at, but when he blurted, “Not all the dragons are dead,” John’s expression turned to genuine shock. He stepped back quickly, snatching his hands away like they were burning.

“Wh…what do you mean?”

Sherlock instantly wanted to chase down the reason for John’s smirk – it had looked interesting, but the desire to reveal his own quest and have John join him in it was too tempting. He'd been waiting so long to find him. “I mean that some families still have the blood in them and that children are being born who have the potential to change between states,” he announced in a suitably impressive voice, he thought.

“What children? Where?” John asked, frowning at him sceptically.

“At home, in the mountains. It’s being kept very quiet at the moment. With things the way they are in Ascea, we need to make sure that our talent can’t be used against us. The Berond were our ancient allies, they bred the best and brightest of our sources, but we’re not sure if that’s still true. It might not be only the Berond who hold the ability to become bondmates with us – or indeed if any remain who can form a productive bond.”

“That’s why you came,” John said, finally making some connections for himself. “You’re not researching dragon histories. You’re looking for their future.”

“Yes!” Sherlock grinned, almost vibrating out of his skin. Clever John, he wasn’t nearly so unremarkable as he looked.

“And? Did you find…?” His eyes went comically wide as Sherlock tipped his head and smiled at him.

 “Yes!” Sherlock repeated. He wanted to hug John, wanted him to see himself the way Sherlock had seen him. He wanted him to believe in what they could achieve together. In what they would be one day.

“My gods,” John whispered. “How do you know? And don’t…don’t joke about this, Sherlock! Are you certain?”

“Yesterday, with the bear that didn’t attack. I could _feel_ you – feel the energy and the potential. It was…it was like it was made for me, John. Like it was our blood in my veins and our heart beating in my chest. Could you not feel it?”

“I…I thought it was fear. I felt…something. I don’t know. Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”

“John, it’s you. You’re my source. I’m certain of it.”

 

 

** VII **

 

Sherlock began scouting for an adequate clearing in the woods, giving John the opportunity of a few minutes to gather himself. His day… no, his whole _life_ had been turned on its head. And he’d thought Sherlock was herding him somewhere secluded for a bit of fun. But this?

Either John was losing his mind or Sherlock had just revealed himself to be a dragon and insisted that he himself was his bonded source. Him! Nothing ever happened to him. John Watson – even his name was dull, for gods’ sake! Even given his Berond ancestry, he was hardly the most striking or charismatic man. Stories from the time of the dragons always portrayed the Berond partners to be somehow more than average - bolder, cleverer, and just all round better than… than he was. While some old families played up to their ancient association with dragons, his own family had been proud but modest. And now this madman was telling him that he, of all the Lowdon bloodline that he had tracked down, was the one who had the ability to be his partner.

Since he was a little boy he had dreamed of dragons, even when his friends had outgrown make-believe games. His heart wanted to believe Sherlock – how could it not? Dragons were the most incredible creatures ever to have walked or flown – he’d have given much to even see such a thing. But he had no idea what was required of him – and for all Sherlock’s intensity and bravado, John had a sneaking suspicion that he didn’t either. What if he allowed himself to believe and he failed? What if he wasn’t good enough? What if he failed _and_ harmed Sherlock in some way?

John’s eyes strayed to where the madman was pacing distances between the trees, gesturing and talking, talking, talking the way he did when he was wrapped up in something. John was surprised to find that, even in his distraction, he had followed Sherlock further into the woods in his quest for the perfect spot. Now it seemed he had found it as he turned to John and looked at him expectantly.

“Are you ready?”

“Ready for what?” John asked giving Sherlock another excuse to give him the ‘you’re an imbecille’ face.

“For the sky to fall down on us! What do you think?” Sherlock demanded. John simply stared at him and Sherlock sighed dramatically. “Dragon, John? Do try to keep up!”

John struggled to keep his lunch down and shook his head. “Oh, I don’t know, Sherlock. What if I’m not the right one?”

“You are,” Sherlock told him without a pause.

“And if I’m not strong enough? And if I get it wrong?”

“You are and you won’t,” Sherlock told him, moving closer, smiling like John had already done something amazing.

“And if…”

“John, I’m sure. And if by some infinitesimal chance you are not mine, then I will simply not have the ability to change and instead will look rather ridiculous. So you see how certain I am that it’s you, because I really _hate_ to look ridiculous.”

John stared at Sherlock some more, reluctant to be overwhelmed by his confidence.

“Please?” Sherlock finally asked softly and genuinely, all his bravado melting away to reveal the deep belief he held that together they could do something as incredible as this.

John sighed and squared his shoulders. There was every chance that they would fail, but Sherlock’s assurances that only their prides would be hurt had reassured him somewhat. He nodded. “What do I do?”

For a moment Sherlock looked perplexed. “When we were by the river and the bear came – how did you feel?”

“Terrified,” John deadpanned.

“Yes, yes, but what else? Come on, John! What were you thinking of?”

“You,” John admitted, his eyes closing to recall the exact sequence. “I wanted to get between you and the bear.” John opened his eyes to find Sherlock looking closely at him, somewhat stunned.

“Really?”

“Yes, is that wrong?”

“Not at all. I just… Never mind. Think of that, John, think about why you stepped between us.”

John closed his eyes again and let Sherlock’s voice guide him.

“I was unarmed. I would have had no chance. If you hadn’t been there I would have been killed with the first blow – he was that hungry.”

It played out on the inside of John’s eyelids; the bear, rearing onto its back legs, so close that he was assaulted by the terrible sour smell of it, Sherlock behind him, slow to react, the bear’s grunts and growls as it began to move toward them, the instinctive feeling that it shouldn’t reach Sherlock at any cost, because he was John’s friend, his to protect, his to care for…

“Yes! That’s right. Don’t lose that,” Sherlock encouraged. “Stay with it. You were all that was between me and that bear, John. I needed you.”

John dared not open his eyes as the feeling grew, as if he were pushing at its boundaries to fill it with his desire to keep Sherlock safe and never see him hurt. It slid and writhed in his mind, seeking to make a shape of its own, but John kept it true. The energy was pouring through him now, through his feet on the ground, through the air on his skin, from the sunshine, from the trees. Pure power, shaped by him into what Sherlock needed it to be. Protection. Safety. Care. For Sherlock.

“Now, John, pass it to me,” Sherlock murmured.

John opened his eyes and did.

He had to set his feet and push back against the power of the pulse of energy as it left him and flowed into Sherlock. It was bigger than his friend, which was odd, because it must also have been bigger than John, yet it had fitted inside him only an instant before. Instinctively, John contained and focussed it, seeing the shape of Sherlock blur and waver and grow until there seemed to be two of him, both occupying the same space at once. One was quite clearly the man he knew, his head bowed and his hands held open in welcome, but the other Sherlock – and it was undoubtedly still Sherlock, John didn’t understand how he knew that, but it was an utter certainty – was a _dragon!_

The energy finally left John completely and poured into Sherlock’s new form, causing his original shape to fade into the new one – both there and not.

John blinked and breathed, then dropped to his knees as the dragon stretched and turned his huge head to look at him.

He was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen – black scales that edged to blue in the dappled light, eyes the same grey as before that picked up the hue of whatever was nearby, a long, narrow head with ridges above his eyes and a large body with four legs that terminated in great, scaled feet with obsidian claws. The end of his tail whipped the air like an angry cat’s and he unfurled huge wings from his back, scaled along the leading edges and seguing into a skin-like membrane between the visible tendons.

He was magnificent. Perfect. Glorious. Superb.

 ** _John,_** the dragon…Sherlock… said wonderingly, reverently, his voice even deeper and more resonant in John’s mind.

John laughed raggedly and realised that his face was wet with hot tears. He wiped them away but still they kept coming.

Sherlock made a low crooning sound and moved awkwardly to stand over John. He carefully extended his face towards John’s and touched a soft muzzle to his forehead, slightly too enthusiastically, making John either lean into it or topple over.

It was overwhelming. John could feel the rush of breath through his hair as Sherlock exhaled against him and pushed against his head more gently.

**_Are you hurt?_ **

He laughed again. When he’d turned his friend into a dragon, why was it so hard to comprehend that the dragon could now speak directly into John’s mind?

“I’m not hurt,” John told him, so the stupid dragon levered his nose under John’s arm and prodded at him and pushed him until he stood up, albeit somewhat shakily.

Sherlock immediately dropped down to his belly, carefully settling his legs and wings before curling his tail around him, ‘accidently’ tapping John with it.

He didn’t need Sherlock to tell him that this was an invitation, so John began to circle him slowly. Without thinking he laid a hand on the scales of Sherlock’s side, feeling how they became smaller and more flexible the further down his flank they were. Here his colours changed – the jet of his back graduating into a brown/bronze that became a soft ivory shade on his belly.

Sherlock grunted and his body shivered slightly causing John to apologise.

 **_It’s fine. It is not…unpleasant_ ** _._

John hoped he would remember that, but to be honest, he could barely remember his own name anymore, wrapped up as he was by today’s events.

“You’re…black,” John said stupidly but Sherlock didn’t berate him, he simply huffed. “Did you know?”

**_No, but you did._ **

“You’re beautiful,” John let slip, regretting it immediately when the dragon sighed hugely and hummed his approval, something he could feel move through the ground, up through his feet and into his bones. Smug git.

Sherlock uncurled himself and stood, causing John to take a few quick steps back. He stretched his neck long and his wings wide, and broke a young tree with a misjudged swing of his tail – or maybe not misjudged from the unrepentant **_Oops!_** that sounded very close to a chuckle.

**_Now comes the challenge. We need to change me back._ **

Sherlock’s voice sounded different in his head. Uncertain almost, and John had a very bad feeling about this.

“You do know how to do that, don’t you?” he asked, cautiously. The last of his tears had dried to make his skin feel tight on his face.

**_Not… exactly, but it must be similar to the first change._ **

“How do you mean, not exactly?” John asked, holding onto his temper by a thread.

**_The few dragons and riders who recorded their lives together actually were rather more interested in their adventures than in the dull day-to-day minutiae, John. I told you that._ **

The dragon’s tone was so very Sherlock, full of ill-concealed irritation and the unmistakable implication that John was somewhat slow.

John smiled tightly and dangerously, coming to stand directly in front of the massive, magnificent creature’s head. “So what you’re telling me is that you don’t know how I change you back into a human.”

**_Well, it can’t be all that hard…_ **

“You don’t know,” John insisted.

**_If you know how to…_ **

“You. Don’t. Know.” John grit his teeth and glowered at Sherlock.

**_Not as such… No._ **

John rocked back on his heels and blew out an exasperated breath at the sky. “Idiot,” he breathed although it could have been aimed at either of them. “Do your precious books record what happens when a dragon can’t be changed back?”

Sherlock moved slightly, shifting his weight from one side to the other, showing his agitation.

**_Well, there was one instance…_ **

“Stop! Don’t tell me!” John snapped. Gods help him, if he had to find a way to do this, he needed to have a clear head without the horrors of his failure hanging there like a warning. “So, only I can push you into your dragon form and only I can pull you back out?”

Sherlock had the grace to look abashed as his giant head nodded once.

“And it doesn’t matter if you…I don’t know, sleep or…”

Eyes of a familiar pewter watched him carefully while Sherlock weaved his neck back and forth in a negative.

**_You know me, John. As far as I can tell, you simply have to think of me in my human form. The only reference to it that I found explained it as the source ‘keeping the person in mind’ as they transformed._ **

Pushing aside how much he wanted to punch the dragon on his snout, John began to clear his mind. He allowed thoughts of Sherlock to rise to the front of his consciousness – his stupid dark curls against the emerald of the grass by the river, his eyes sparking when he said something cutting, the way his laughter was becoming easier, but always sounded as if it surprised him. He thought about the young man’s cheekbones, sharp and sculpted. He thought about the naivety that underlay the arrogance and bluster. He thought about how fastidious Sherlock was in his dress…

**_I don’t primp!_ **

John ignored him, feeling the rumble of energy beginning to form, dancing static along his forearms and down his spine. Distracted by cataloguing the sensations, his grasp slipped and once again, the slick feeling of losing the shape threatened, but John focussed, bending the energy back within the confines of his friend’s body, giving it layer upon layer of meaning, of memory, of devotion…

John _pulled…_

 

 

** VIII**

 

Sherlock braced his hands on his knees and breathed, laughing in delight between gulps of air. His skin tingled with the memory of his other self, his fingers flexed, remembering the feeling of claws. He straightened, exhilaration bubbling through his veins as he closed the distance between himself and John in five strides.

His friend was trembling, almost vibrating out of his hands as Sherlock slid his fingers into John’s hair and roughly pulled their mouths together. All that he’d worked for, everything he’d pieced together and chased and agonised over had brought him here, to this unassuming man and what they could only do together.

John’s hands reached up and grasped his shoulders tightly as Sherlock tilted his head to get a better taste of his lips. Lost in his joyful distraction, it took Sherlock a few moments to realise that John was no longer returning his eager kisses, and he pulled back, angling his head to see his face.

“You fucking idiot!” John gritted, his cheeks pink and his eyes wide.

Sherlock dropped his hands and stumbled back a pace, shocked out of his euphoria by the other man’s reaction, like being drenched with a bucket of icy water on a hot day.

“What if I hadn’t been able to change you back?” John hissed. His fury was all the more disturbing for its control. His fists were clenched and his eyes flashed, but he was utterly still. “You had no right, Sherlock. You had no right to keep that from me! What if I hadn’t known you well enough to form a secure image in my head? What if I hadn’t had the focus or enough power?”

“But you did! I knew you did! You’re my source – I _knew_ I wasn’t mistaken. We would never have made a bond if there was a mistake.”

“How could you be certain? It’s not like we have a lot of experience in this, is it?”

Sherlock reached out a hand to touch John’s arm, but the furious man knocked it away. He looked genuinely shaken and it pained Sherlock strangely, to see him like that without being able to comfort him with a touch.

“Listen, John, listen to me. If you knew what I looked like as a dragon, then there was no danger. That’s how it works. I had no idea how I would look – it all came from you. And if you knew my dragon form, you can only have known that by knowing _me._ That’s the bond. That’s how I knew you could guide me back.”

“But I didn’t know that, Sherlock! My gods, I was terrified! We’ve known each other for all of six days – how could you possibly know that would be enough? How could you? How _could_ you do that to me?”

John walked away, careful to avoid the hand that Sherlock held out to him. He stopped a few steps away, keeping his back firmly toward Sherlock. His shoulders were tight, a picture of misery. “Maybe, Sherlock, you’ve spent too much time with your head in those books of yours instead of living out here with us mortals. If you’d looked up once in a while you might have noticed that you don’t treat people like that. It takes two of us to do this apparently, but when only one of us knows the rules, when one of us lies…”

“I never lied to you!” Sherlock protested, hurt and confused enough for his words to come out more harshly than he intended.

“You didn’t tell the _truth!_ ” John twisted and glared at him over his shoulder. “You didn’t tell me what you knew, and I may not have known you long, but I know that was deliberate!”

Sherlock, conscious of some truth in that accusation, only glanced away for a second but when he turned back, John was smiling coldly at his unspoken admission.

“In _my_ book that’s lying, Sherlock. I’ll see you back at my sister's house,” he snapped and walked back to where they’d left the horses without a backward glance.

Dinner that night was a somewhat subdued affair. Harry, obviously having noticed the animosity between them was doing her best to keep up conversation. The firelight and the lanterns on the table made the room seem, warm, festive and welcoming, but John’s eyes glittered dangerously whenever Sherlock caught sight of him.

He had tried to find John several times that afternoon but the man… _his bondmate_ … had an interesting ability to be elsewhere, whenever Sherlock asked after him. Finally giving up as night had fallen, this meal was the first time Sherlock had laid eyes on John since the establishment of their bond. He couldn’t deny the feeling of relief at his return, but was under no illusions that his company was being merely tolerated right now.

John, Harry and several members of the household lingered at the table after all the dishes were cleared catching up on news from while John had been away. Sherlock got up from the table as unobtrusively as he could and left the room, nodding only to Harry when her eyes caught his as he went.

He opened the door to his own room, miserable and confused, the feelings only intensified by the suspicion that he was, in fact, to blame in some way. John’s words had struck home, but Sherlock was almost certain that the fact that they were likely the first bonded dragon and source in centuries should outweigh any lingering doubts about how that had been achieved.

He stood in the open doorway to his bland, boring room and on a whim stepped back into the corridor, choosing instead to go to John’s room.

The lamp was lit in the corner, making the room seem homely and intimate in a way Sherlock’s own did not. John’s personality, although dulled by time was still present. His books were those of the boy he’d been before he’d had to grow up too quickly. A wooden sword and shield stood propped in a corner as if waiting for him to resume play. His interests were found in the woodcarvings placed around the surfaces; an owl, an eagle of some kind and a primitive representation of a dragon.

“He doesn’t look much like you,” John said quietly from the doorway.

“Perhaps not, but he looks like you liked him for a lot longer than you liked me,” Sherlock replied, letting his fingers linger on the wing, smoothed by time and countless passes of John’s childish hands.

“Yeah, but if I broke him, I knew my father could make me another one.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock blurted without waiting for John’s lips to close. It wasn’t something he said very often, but he had sudden insight into what remorse was supposed to feel like that he’d lacked before. It was cold, uncomfortable and low in his belly, and he decided to avoid it again in the future if he could. He risked a glance at his bondmate. John looked tired and resigned rather than appeased.

John opened his mouth but sighed when words were obviously too hard to come by. He crossed the distance between them, reached around Sherlock and ran a practiced finger down the length of the wooden dragon’s spine. “Your tail is longer,” he muttered. “Your wings flare out from here, not here. Your have a gap here, where your crest ridges end and your spine begins. Your snout is longer – all your proportions are longer, more slender. Your scales are as black as a moonless midnight here and shade to brown then bronze then paler here…”

“John…”

“… and if you ever pull a trick like that on me again I will never forgive you. We can only do this together, Sherlock. Completely together. No secrets, no half-truths, no omissions. You are my dragon and I am your source and one day I will be your rider. I don’t know how you treat your friends and I don’t much care because for all intents and purposes we are now the most important person in each other’s lives and we cannot mess it up. Do we agree?”

Sherlock could only nod and watched John take a deep breath, loosing it in a long, low huff and breathing out all the tension in his shoulders. He didn’t smile but his face softened a little as he turned away.

“I don’t,” Sherlock admitted. John stopped to look back at him curiously. “Have friends,” Sherlock clarified with a shrug of one shoulder. “ _People_ don’t tend to _like_ me,” he expanded, quietly. “I don’t think I’m terribly good at it.”

John nodded to himself, a small, understanding smile appearing - finally - on his lips. “Well, you’re in luck, because I’m _very_ good at it. Just follow my lead.”

Their eyes met and held. They were closer than Sherlock had realised, only an arm’s length apart, close enough to see the pale freckles over John’s nose that would become more defined as spring became summer. He licked his bottom lip, drawing Sherlock’s eyes to his mouth momentarily as the memory of that afternoon’s kiss rushed at him. Perhaps he had been unwise in that, but he’d wanted nothing more in that moment than to share something precious with John, something real and spontaneous and joyful. And for a brief time, John had kissed him back, he’d thought. Perhaps he’d been mistaken. Perhaps he’d misjudged. Perhaps he’d done it wrong.

Sherlock looked away first and crossed the room quietly. “Goodnight, John,” he murmured and shut the door behind him.

 

** IX **

 

John gave up on pretending to sleep as dawn stole around the chinks in the shutters and trickled its wan light onto his bedroom floor. He dressed quickly, deciding to find a few minutes quiet in the same place he had as a child.

He made his way down stairs, recalling even after all this time which were the ones to avoid because they squeaked. The door out to the yard needed some attention, but he made it out undetected except by the dogs who accepted ear scratches and pats in return for their silence.

The barns were mostly in darkness, but John had enough light to find the gate latch for the hawk’s cage. Harry was an excellent hawker and kept three birds. John didn’t know enough about these to take one out, but he liked to spend time here anyway. The birds were beautiful and wild despite their captivity. There was something about them that had fascinated him from an early age; not knowing if they would return to you once they got a taste of the sky and the unpredictable weight of a bird, balanced on your glove.

He stretched out his hand slowly, waiting for the bird to accept his touch. Her feathers were short but soft on her chest and she merely tilted her head as John gently stroked a finger along the grain of them.

Tired as he was, his brain still roiled like boiling water. There was so much he didn’t know about the relationship he had forged with the strange, young Pharon man. He believed him when Sherlock said that so much knowledge had been lost over the years, but he still didn’t feel completely comfortable that his bondmate had been totally open about the knowledge he _did_ have. There hadn’t been a lot of time, admittedly, but John didn’t relish the sensation of having to act with only a part of answers he needed. That required trust, and although John liked Sherlock enormously and accepted that he had John’s best interests at heart, they had only known each other for a matter of days. Or maybe his discomfort was that he feared that he’d already given him that trust though Sherlock had shown few signs of having earned it.

And that kiss – what had that been about? John had wanted to kiss him, had thought about it and had even followed Sherlock into the woods _expecting_ a kiss at least for his trouble. But had Sherlock been kissing him for _John_ or for his newly discovered bondmate? And now he was both, they’d have no chance to find out.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Sherlock’s quiet voice asked from the doorway.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” John replied, equally as softly, not allowing himself to dwell on why he hadn’t been startled by Sherlock’s silent arrival.

“You didn’t.”

He withdrew his hand and stepped away, careful not to alarm the bird before he refastened the gate.

Sherlock’s breath clouded on the sharp air and he looked pleasingly tousled this morning. John gave him a rueful smile. “Sarah and Thaniel aren’t up yet, but I can probably make tea without burning anything,” he offered.

Sherlock quirked a smile and nodded, following John back into the sleeping household. It took John a few moments to persuade the fire to burn brightly enough to heat water, but soon they sat on either side of the scrubbed kitchen table each nursing a cup of warming tea.

“You grew up here,” Sherlock said simply. “It explains a lot.”

“Do you think so?” John replied, lifting his chin slightly, ready for Sherlock’s next observation, which so often resembled an insult.

Sherlock seemed to notice, narrowing his eyes before letting them slide away to linger on the dogs, piled on the floor. “It’s nice here,” Sherlock explained quietly. “Welcoming. Safe.”

John swallowed and focussed on his tea. Every word felt loaded with meaning today. Every glance. Every pause. He was elated in a way he never expected existed but behind the enormity of their new status was the shadow of their short acquaintance and the weight of their role as the only bonded dragon pair.

“What’s Pharo like then? Where you live?”

Sherlock licked his bottom lip as he considered. “Harsh… beautiful but harsh. It can be an unforgiving landscape. I live in the mountains. Our homes are different to yours; more stone and less wood. We build taller, not wider. We have terraces not gardens. In the summer the high meadows burst into flower and we have festivals in the sunshine. Our rooves are made of slate, set into patterns and when it rains they show their different colours.”

“It sounds quite different to here,” John ventured when Sherlock’s words dried up. “You’ll show me one day, right?”

Sherlock nodded, cleared his throat and set down his cup, suddenly business-like again. “We need to practise.”

“Alright,” John agreed. “On the way back today. If we pick up the pace, I know a place we can take some time where there are fewer farmsteads around.”

“There’s time before breakfast,” Sherlock said, his eyebrows raised in question. “Is there somewhere here?”

John shook his head. “Too risky,” he said, “And the last thing I need is an audience.”

Sherlock looked at him long and hard, but eventually nodded.

All morning as they rode, John had tried to dull the roar of the questions that wouldn’t stop clamouring inside his head, and the nagging sensation that there was something he was supposed to be remembering. Sherlock had asked him several times if he was well and after John had snapped at him he’d begun to cast worried glances his way but kept his peace.

John had made the journey to and from his uncle’s hall many times, so it was a spot he knew well to be secluded and hidden from the nearest farms and tracks by the folding of the low hills that he guided them to, leaving the horses at a distance, tied on a long tether beside a stream.

The power came to him more quickly this time, as if a pathway had been forged within him, straight and true. It surprised him in many ways that despite their fragile truce, his ability to guide Sherlock into his dragon form seemed to have strengthened and deepened. His friend, in the meantime, seemed to recognise how profoundly he had shaken John’s trust, and was treating him with a careful reverence that John was surprised to find him capable of.

“That’s right, John,” Sherlock murmured, the words strangely intimate, causing John to shake himself mentally and focus harder.

His skin seemed charged, as if lightning prickled along his forearms, across his shoulders and into his torso. John bowed his head and in breathed it into the already familiar shape of his dragon, the curve of neck and claw, the glint of his scales, and the power in the muscles of his tail. For only the second time in his life, John Watson pushed at the membrane that separated his mad, curly-haired friend and the awe-inspiring dragon that was _also Sherlock_ , and felt the rightness of him shift. He didn’t need to watch this time; he kept his head bowed and followed the touch of Sherlock’s consciousness as it shifted with him.

The dragon hummed with satisfaction. **_That was good. Much quicker. Already our bond is strengthening. Now change me back._**

“Gods, you’re a pushy bastard!” John mumbled.

**_One day our lives might depend on how fast we are, how strong we are together._ **

He opened his eyes and stared at the dragon. “What does that mean?”

**_Simply an observation. It’s never a waste to strive for mastery of any useful task._ **

John couldn't help the sinking feeling that swooped through his stomach. How did this infuriating man speak truths and lies in the same breath? “Sherlock, do you recall the conversation we had only yesterday about how this partnership would and would not work?”

**_Yes, of course. I have an excellent memory. It’s not as if a day is a long period over which to…_ **

Crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows, John prepared to wait it out. In his mind, Sherlock’s rich, all-embracing rumble stopped suddenly and the massive dragon tipped his head and huffed, then crouched as low as he could get and crept toward John – if a creature that size could be said to creep.

**_There have been… rumours. About children born with similar abilities to my own disappearing. It isn’t common knowledge yet, but there have been reports of dragon sightings on the border with Ascea._ **

John felt a little sick. Ascea shared a border with both Beron and Pharo. He’d heard the dragon stories himself when he’d been stationed there, in taverns when the locals were too far into their cups. He had dismissed them even as his heart had longed to see their colours in the sky and their shadows on the ground.

“So there’s another pair? Like us?” John marvelled.

**_That has yet to be proven. If so, why haven’t they declared themselves? There are legal requirements to be discharged, bloodlines established. All Pharon know this. And if they have found their source then why have we not heard of it from our Berond brothers?_ **

“So you think they are hiding it, whoever they are? For what purpose?”

**_That is why we are worried._ **

“Who are we?”

**_My family, other families with similar histories and abilities. Those who had given up hope of ever seeing a dragon fly again._ **

John watched the agitated way that Sherlock’s tail tip flicked. He could feel the tension in Sherlock’s body bleed along their link, making his own shoulders tight in sympathy. He sighed and rolled his neck, withdrawing his hand from Sherlock’s muzzle where he was stroking him soothingly and subconsciously. How long had he been doing that for? John bowed his head and opened his mind to the energy that hovered just unseen between him and the black dragon. It felt more responsive now, more available to him and more quickly. In the space of five breaths he was ready to pull Sherlock back.

 

** X **

 

For all that it was only the fourth time that he’d changed state, Sherlock felt surprisingly composed. He stumbled a little, readjusting to his smaller stature and lack of tail or wings, but covered it with a few steps away from John, whose warm, capable hands had felt so right on his face a few moments before. The Berond were tactile people Sherlock had noticed already – they embraced easily and touched often unlike his own more reserved people. It was a novelty to experience such casual contact, which was why he seemed to be dwelling upon it. It was distracting, but he hoped that John didn't recognise his own awkwardness and stop.

“Again,” he instructed, squaring up to his source again.

John raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. He rolled his shoulders back and breathed as Sherlock began to experience the strange sensation of _otherness_ that was already becoming as familiar as the blue of John’s eyes, gazing directly at him as he shifted.

Rumbling in pleasure at the smoothness of the transition, he reflected that they were already improving in great leaps. This was innate; it was the part of them that they had both been missing all their short lives. It felt like this was an ability that had been waiting for them to catch up all this time.

“What now?” John asked. “We can’t play too long. I don’t know how many more times I can do this and we’re expected back at the hall before nightfall.”

Sherlock considered. If this was to be their last transition of the day he needed to make it count. He looked down at John – his John, whose eyes lit up whenever he looked upon his dragon. Sherlock tensed his muscles and stretched his wings wide.

“I know what you’re thinking and you better bloody not, Sherlock! Sherlock!”

He crouched low and leapt into the sky with an instinctive and mighty down stroke. Three more beats and he was rising above the surrounding hills. The sensation was exceptional. His dragon form was made for this, his muscles flexed and contracted without his conscious input. He seemed to understand the necessary adjustments, the corrections that would keep him from falling to the earth. His body moved with the wind, with the updrafts, effortlessly navigating the sky.

“You’re a complete tosser. You know that, don’t you?” John told him, but his voice was overlaid with the bright notes of pure joy. His awe and admiration bled along their bond.

**_I can still hear you. Interesting._ **

He banked left and looked down at where John was watching him, his stance wide and his hand shading his eyes as he followed Sherlock through the air. He could see the way he squinted, creasing the skin around his eyes and promising lines later in life. He could see the stubbled patch on John’s jaw where he’d missed it while shaving this morning; too impatient to check when they were planning to test their bond that day. He could even see that John’s beard would grow in redder than his hair if left. Sherlock’s eyesight was incredibly sharp over the ever-increasing distance between them.

“What can you see?” John asked, and Sherlock wondered at how much he was picking up on Sherlock’s thoughts through their largely untested bond.

**_Everything. I can see for miles. It’s wonderful._ **

He spiralled higher, turning to look back toward John’s land behind them by half a day’s ride, and then banking again to look forward toward Lowdon Hall. Somehow it looked more impressive from up here than it had on the ground. From here he could see how it sat in its locale, solid and enduring.

A bright flash of metal caught his attention, and another, off to the left. It was not the sun catching a ploughshare or a stirrup. Surely only the keen edge of a blade would glint so. Sherlock watched with growing dread as dark-dressed men began to carefully surround the household of the Lowdons, quietly and stealthily taking up planned positions.

“Who is it?” John asked, his voice low and calm but unmistakably dangerous.

**_I don’t know. I…_ **

A glimpse of familiar auburn hair and an unmistakable profile left Sherlock in little doubt.

**_It’s Mycroft. It’s my brother. I have to go._ **

“No,” John stated implacably, leaving no room for doubt. It wasn’t even a command, more a simple statement of fact.

**_This is my fault. I have to, John._ **

John’s hesitation was less than a single breath. “Pick me up,” he insisted, running clear of the trees and into open meadow. “Now!”

Sherlock folded his wings and dropped, slowing his descent at the last moment and nearly falling at John’s feet. And that was something he definitely needed to work on at another time when his stupid, ignorant, possessive brother wasn’t threatening the household that had provided his kind with their first source in centuries.

John glanced at his options and then quickly climbed up Sherlock’s bent front leg to settle astride his neck and shoulder.

“A dragon would never drop his bondmate, right?” John muttered and Sherlock’s pride in his friend swelled beyond what he’d ever felt before, knowing the utter trust that was being put in him now. John had no riding straps, no experience and had only been his bondmate for a day, yet here he was balanced on the shoulder of an until recently mythical creature whose own flying experience consisted of approximately five minutes total, ready to take to the sky.

If Sherlock had the time or the words, he would make a real effort to compose such praises for his bondmate as a rider had never known before, but as John settled his hands on Sherlock’s neck ridges and tightened his thigh muscles against his neck he only had the word **_Ready?_** to give him.

“Ready,” John breathed and they surged into the sky.

 

** XI **

Mycroft Holmes was a thorough man. He didn’t like surprises and if something could be wrested back from the clutches of chance, he would ensure that it was so. He liked information, he liked facts and he liked to be three steps ahead of any situation he found himself in. What he did not care for was not knowing whether the object of his search was actually the instigator of the disappearance in the first place.

Sherlock had always walked his own path, even as a child. He’d been a serious little boy, not, apparently an easy one to love, yet Mycroft had enjoyed his quick mind, his quirks and his determination – all the time it hadn’t clashed spectacularly with his own which had become more frequent as they’d grown. Sherlock’s unconventional methods often produced results but Mycroft had thought him more prudent than to have taken off on this journey with the tension between the Ascene, Beron and Pharo nations as it currently was. The rumours about the dragon sightings on the borders were an undercurrent that it was proving difficult to confirm, one way or another, but it was no secret that something was happening; Mycroft even had some rather disturbing intelligence as to what that might be. So to have his idiot brother and his uncommon talents, abroad and unaccounted for at this delicate time was reckless in the extreme.

The other alternative, of course, was why he’d come with a back-up plan.

So he wasn’t exactly overflowing with compassion and understanding as he rode into the courtyard of James Lowdon’s Hall that day. It seemed that his approach had been noted, in that some hastily gathered guards milled around, eyeing the newcomers warily. While hardly a threat to Mycroft and his retinue, he hoped to avoid any unpleasantness but the fact remained that Sherlock’s last known location had been here. What Mycroft didn’t know was whether that was by choice or by force.

Four young people with Sherlock’s abilities had disappeared in the last two years and that represented a significant fraction of those whose heritage had gifted them with their extraordinary potential. Perhaps he might be judged harshly for his insurance - twenty-six heavily armed professional soldiers already in their covert positions around the hall – but he couldn’t completely ignore his considerable fear for his brother’s continued liberty and wellbeing. He felt his reaction was quite restrained compared to what he would bring down upon anyone who had other ideas.

An older man, strongly built and shrewd of eye appeared at the entrance to the hall. His gaze took in the scene quickly and with little reaction other than a lift of his chin and a squaring of his shoulders. This must be James Lowdon, the patriarch of this branch of the ancient family.

“To what might we ascribe your arrival in this way?” The tone of his address was neither inflammatory nor welcoming. Mycroft found himself hoping that his fears were unfounded – James Lowdon would make a better ally than enemy. That wouldn’t stop Mycroft from what he’d have to do, but much hinged on how the next few moments played out.

“I assume that I am addressing Sir James Lowdon,” Mycroft said, using his height from horseback to observe the reaction their arrival had caused. He could see his own people taking positions near the perimeter of the courtyard, but Lowdon’s own men had not been given any kind of orders in a way they made obvious. That was a good sign.

“I am James Lowdon,” the older man replied. “Give me your name, stranger and the reason for your business here.”

Mycroft observed neither hesitance in the man’s speech nor any obvious sign that he was dissembling. He dismounted, passing his horse off to one of his guards. “Sir, I regret to arrive in such a robust manner, but I am searching for a countryman of mine.”

“A countryman of…?” Lowdon left the sentence dangling.

“A Pharon by the name of Sherlock Holmes. We were told that he had passed this way.”

“And, had he passed this way, what business would you have with him?” The older man stepped toward Mycroft causing a flutter of movement from both his own guards and the Lowdon retainers.

Mycroft smiled briefly. “A family matter requires his urgent attention. I am sent to bring him home.”

Even dismounted, Mycroft was taller than Lowdon by at least a hand and a half – while normally he would have relished this, the man gave no indication of being at a disadvantage, physical or otherwise. His gaze was steady and he weighed his words carefully. What a diplomat this man would have made, had he the urge.

“I can tell you that he is not here but any further conversation on this subject depends upon your… associates and an introduction, sir.”

Mycroft breathed deeply and lifted his chin as he considered. It was time to gamble on the honesty of James Lowdon. Making a short but graceful bow he said, “I am Mycroft Holmes and my family is at the service of your family now and always if you can help me to find my brother.”

At that moment the sound of surprised shouting came from without. Both Mycroft and his reluctant host dispatched a man with a nod to determine what the source of the disturbance was.

Lowdon’s man returned breathless – too fast for him to have made it outside the gates and back. He reported quickly, his hand on his sword. “Sir, the hall is surrounded. The gentleman has come with more force than those we count within.”

Lowdon’s lips thinned as he breathed in to speak. But the shouting and commotion from outside grew louder and Mycroft’s man ran to him, his salute lost in wide eyes and fumbled words. “Dragon, sir! There’s a dragon…”

A cool shadow passed across the hall and courtyard, quick and silent as all eyes turned to the sky. The horses plunged, their hooves loud and clattering as they rolled their eyes and fought with their riders.

With a short glance at each other, Lowdon and Mycroft joined the exodus through the gateway. A group of people stood, staring into the sky. Several men on both sides had unsheathed their swords and a couple of the horses had broken free causing further chaos. But Mycroft only had eyes for the great, black dragon that wheeled on its furthest wing and approached low across the fields from the east. With the sun behind it, its scales were so bright as to make him blink. Breathing forgotten, he watched as the creature reared up and landed somewhat heavily in the nearest of the paddocks. Their men stayed back as it folded its wings and stalked up towards those gathered outside the hall, its claws flicking up gouges from the turf as it came. It halted, hissing, before Mycroft and Lowdon, and cast a cold eye over the scene, its tail flicking dangerously and its great chest expanding with its breaths.

It was vast, sinuous and scaled. Mycroft had nothing to compare it against, but even having had the benefit of depictions he’d seen in the libraries at home, he felt unprepared for its size and presence. It flared its wings out and twisted its neck to peer over its shoulder, watching as an unnoticed rider slithered down scales to make a neat leap to the ground at the dragon’s feet. The man, dwarfed by the dragon’s massive presence, placed a hand on its foreleg for a moment before pushing off and turning toward them.

“Gods of old,” Lowdon swore and took a couple of unconscious steps toward the man. The dragon instantly snapped its head toward the movement, its eyes deadly keen. It growled in a range so low that Mycroft felt it more than heard it. More than ample warning for Lowdon to stand completely still under the great creature’s glare.

The young man said nothing, only watched as the dragon slowly lowered itself to the ground and settled in a manner that looked almost reluctant.

“Uncle James,” the man said, smiling quickly at Lowdon then turned to Mycroft. “And you must be Mycroft. Sherlock’s seen fit to tell me absolutely nothing about you other than an interesting commentary as we flew in.”

The dragon flicked its eyes over to Mycroft and let out a snort that could only be amusement.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft swallowed, hoping that his voice hadn’t cracked as badly as it had sounded to him.

John reached out a hand and laid it on the dragon’s jet-black crest. ”He says welcome to Beron.”

 

** XII **

 

 ** _That’s not remotely what I said_** Sherlock huffed in John’s mind.

John turned his head so his lips could not be seen and muttered, “Do you want me to change you back so you can tell him yourself? Or are you having too much fun intimidating everyone?”

 ** _The latter_** admitted Sherlock and swung his head to scan the line of guards, soldiers and people from the household who had come to see the excitement. Most of them drew back as Sherlock’s wintery eyes slid across them and John found that he couldn’t exactly blame them. If it weren’t for the comforting rumble of Sherlock’s voice in his head and the fact that he’d watched the tall, skinny idiot change into this amazing, impossible thing, he’d have been terrified too.

He’d almost lost his never earlier, in fact. He’d been unprepared for the speed at which the ground dropped away when Sherlock first took off. The wind had torn at him and rocked him, and only Sherlock’s calm voice in his head and his solid strength beneath him had stopped John from losing his breakfast, magical beast or not. His heart was still hammering so hard he could hear it, but he had to look assured now. He was Sherlock’s bondmate and he couldn’t let him down.

His uncle was staring at him from an ashen face. “John, what…? When did this happen? Is this…?”

He’d seen his uncle drunk, injured, furious and overjoyed, but he had never seen the depths of wonder in his face or heard him be anything but concise and elegant in his speech.

“Is that…?”

“Uncle, this is Sherlock and he has chosen me as his bondmate.” It was the first time he had said it aloud to anyone but Sherlock and his pride and elation were tempered only with a small twinge of regret at not having the chance to say goodbye to his own small life before his change in status.

 ** _Almost, but we chose each other, John,_** Sherlock corrected him gently and he felt something like a sigh ripple across his mind. **_Now tell my idiot brother to recall his lackeys and send them back to whatever low-life, pestilence-ridden tavern he recruited them from. What was he thinking?_**

“Bondmate,” Mycroft echoed, as the undercurrent of apprehension in the crowd dissolved into excited whispers and exclamations.

John felt the crackle of Sherlock’s irritation and looked more closely at the brother who had drawn his displeasure. You would not have recognised them as brothers straight away. At first glance only their precise diction and height made them seem similar but John didn’t know many Pharon, and that could have been common among their countrymen. Mycroft seemed to be older by at least a handful of years and his face lacked the unusual angles that made Sherlock so striking. But now John began to notice similarities too; the red of Mycroft’s hair was the same one that was shot through Sherlock’s dark curls, the touch of ice and the sharp intellect in their eyes, the way they held themselves.

“I shan’t repeat what Sherlock said, but if you would like to recall your men and have them remove themselves from the vicinity of this household…all of them, then we can discuss this like adults,” John said with a raised eyebrow and a mild smile.

Mycroft matched his smile with one equally as false and tilted his head in John’s direction. “Of course. They were, after all, merely a precaution in case my brother had not found such a momentous welcome among the Berond.” He glanced back at Sherlock and blinked up at him. “May I?”

John stepped back reluctantly at Sherlock’s word and allowed Mycroft to walk a lap around his baby brother’s magnificent form. John felt his hands curling into fists and deliberately straightened his fingers out again as he watched Mycroft’s face for any flicker of criticism. His fierceness surprised him; it was all he could do to stop himself from stepping between Mycroft’s greedy gaze and Sherlock’s perfection.

Was this then what their bond was? The feelings of possessiveness and protection welled up inside him at any hint of Sherlock’s unhappiness. It was more than a little overwhelming to feel so much so soon.

 ** _He can do it too, John. He has the potential to change like I do,_** Sherlock told him softly. **_But what he lacks is someone as exceptional as yourself to make it a reality._**

John turned his head sharply away from Mycroft and stared at his dragon. _His dragon!_ He cleared his throat and murmured, “Careful, Sherlock, that was almost a compliment there.”

**_Compliments don’t come into it. It is a statement of fact. You are the only person I could have done this with. You are unique. Irreplaceable. Exceptional. And I found you._ **

John couldn’t help the slight blush that warmed his cheeks or the smile that tugged at his lips at the smugness that underlay the dragon’s words.

The line in his mind between his dragon and his ridiculously tall, pale, abrasive friend were already beginning to dissolve. His voice was the same deep, smooth rumble and his words were the same blend of backhanded compliments and spiteful insults. His eyes were the same silver. His pride and his intellect and his vanity– all the same. All Sherlock.

Not at all the partner for life he had imagined for himself, but the perfect one anyway.

Even as Mycroft withdrew and other, braver observers moved towards them to witness the miracle, Sherlock craned his neck to look at John with eyes that had stolen a scrap of the sky.

**_Regrets already?_ **

Sherlock’s voice was teasing, but John could feel the concern beneath it. He could _feel_ Sherlock preparing to defend himself against John’s rejection - a well-established strategy from the way it rose so easily to Sherlock’s mind.

“Not a single one,” John told him, gathering every ounce of assurance and certainty he had to the forefront of his mind as he spoke.

Sherlock’s eyes closed, and he hummed in pleasure so that John could feel it in the very marrow of his bones.

 _Their_ blood in his veins.

 _Their_ heart beating inside his chest.

 

 

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> I don't say too much on Tumblr, but if you want to follow, I'm at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bertytravelsfar


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